Redmond Diaries -the second year
by katherine-with-a-k
Summary: Now it's getting juicy...
1. Chapter XI

**O****k, so I think you know how this works, but if you don't this story is told in diary form and follows Anne of the Island chapter for chapter. The second year starts at chapter eleven, so if you want to read the preceding ten chapters please check out Redmond Diaries -the first year. **

**Now that I've established this idea and the characters I'm just gonna go for it and really get inside their heads -or try to. That might mean less action, or action that doesn't refer much to the original chapter, but I hope these characters' thoughts will still make a good read, and I really hope you come along with me**

**With love and gratitude to L.M.M. and my Anne girls -here's to another year!  
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**REDMOND DIARIES -THE SECOND YEAR**

**... ... ...**

**CHAPTER XI -The Round of Life**

_**23rd May, 1884; in the greenest Green Gables, nestled under a wild pear tree; the breeze bristling round my body, inspiration bristling though my soul**_

More wonderful news, Ida!

I have finally determined the heroine's name for my story. Indeed _she_ declared it to me:

'None of your Rosamunds, dear authoress! Nor your Evangelines. I am to be Averil Lester; Lady Averil Angelica Lester'.

She is _dazzling!_ I always imagined she would have lustrous obsidian hair and a starry violet gaze, but of course an _Averil_ must have golden tresses and eyes of a boundless blue. This will makes the task of describing my hero _so_ much easier because he is to have jet black curls, and if I had _two_ dark haired characters I should run out of words to describe them in the _first_ paragraph.

How clever of Averil! I love spending time in her company and seeing the world through those faultless sapphires. She accompanies me everywhere, I needn't be at my desk or even have a pen and paper to hand. With each walk I take, each morsel I taste, each tree and bloom I spy, I hear her melodic voice share with me the Averil-ish way she perceives the world. Averil _adores_ the spring, the blossom laden branches of the White Way of Delight seem to bow as she enters the avenue. She is especially fond of the wind and wears her hair long and loose so that she might feel-

'the fingers of a rose scented zephyr caress each strand of her gilded locks, whispering glories that speak of her imperial spirit.'

Isn't that a gorgeous phrase, Ida? Though I may change 'imperial' as it conjures the sort of pride that Averil could _never_ express. Perhaps 'exalted', or 'majestic? Yes, majestic! Because that will foreshadow her connection to the hero. He is to be a prince but I have yet to decide on his name because it is utterly contingent on the plot. What a headache it is thinking up a story for them. I am hoping to bring forth something entirely unique but all my ideas sound like some version of a Grimm's tale.

In fact I am rather taken with the idea of inverting the story of 'the Goose Girl' whereupon the prince is tricked out of marriage by his conniving manservant who presents himself to Averil as her rightful husband-to-be, while the poor prince is sent to work with the geese. Yet I _couldn't_ have a goose-herd. Perhaps a shepherd? But then how is Averil to _meet_ him? What about a cook? Yes, a cook! And Averil, so heartbroken by her tragic marriage feels her soul awaken as a breeze redolent with ambrosial concoctions is borne up to her tower.

She will have to be kept in a tower because she refuses to give into the villain's advances -I can't have her lose her virtue to a rogue! Oh, he shall be handsome enough, with a wicked grin and hazel eyes that seem to bore right into her. But Averil will realise his feelings for her are merely carnal and she will refuse his seductive advances.

I think I should write that scene, Ida, though I shall never submit it, it _will_ help with the characterisation. I can see him now, unable to resist the devilish urges inside him, he mounts the stairs with a steely intent to make Averil his wife once and for all. She can hear the lock turn, she knows it is him for he is the only one with a key. It is night -naturally the man would come at midnight when all the servants are asleep- and try as she might Averil cannot rouse her maid. She clutches her satin nightgown, the diaphanous lace can scarcely contain her excitement as he slowly enters, a look of burning desire over his brooding countenance. And she calls out to the night, 'Will _no one_ deliver me from this libertine?'

Hmmm. It is good, but now I have the problem of how to get the hero into her room. Perhaps Averil has sent her servant to bring her something to eat? Yes! For it is fairly unlikely that she should be unable to rouse the maid from sleep. And then the hero appears with a stupendous creation, a cake of some sort -perhaps one they both baked earlier that day. That could become quite an amusing scene -and I need some lightness to contrast with the drama. Of course neither will actually make any comical speeches, it is the _idea_ of a future king and queen cooking in the kitchen upon which the humour will rest. And as they measure out their ingredients, sifting and mixing, there should be plenty of scope for fluttery touches and yearning glances to pass between them. Only why on earth should the hero be proficient in the kitchen in the first place? Well, he shall just _have_ to be. Perhaps it is a requirement in his kingdom, like the quests of King Arthur.

I could call my hero Arthur! But then I should always be thinking of Ruby's buck toothed brother. I would love to have a Lancelot, but I am afraid that would sound rather obvious. Perhaps Perceval? Yes _Perceval_, so pure of heart he would rather worship at Averil's feet than touch one strand of her golden hair. Now I just need to settle on a last name. I believe I will take a stroll down to the cemetery and study the headstones. They are hardly as inspiring as old St John's, but there is one who lies there whose opinion means more to me than anyone else. Matthew so enjoyed my little Story Club jottings and I am sure he would be thrilled to hear how they have matured into grander, more ambitious works.

Dear Matthew, how I miss him. Though strange to say his gentle spirit seems embodied in that place now. The scotch rose we planted weaves about his grave so that it seems as welcoming to me as Green Gables itself.

But to think of _Ruby_ lying there; how can a girl so vivid and lively be returned to the earth so soon? It does not seem real to me. Yet how much _more_ unreal for her. As heartbreaking as it is to see her deny her illness I cannot blame her. Imagine looking upon the beauty of spring knowing it might be the last time you gaze upon a Mayflower or hear the call of a lark? It would be unendurable, yet somehow we must find a way to help her endure it.

Oh Ruby, to have so few days given to you and to have lived them so carelessly. But if you will let me I promise you shall not walk these last steps alone.

**… … …**

_**30th May, Allwinds, Avonlea**_

What a piece of work is woman, how mysterious in reason, how infinite her capacity to bewilder and bemuse.

Forgive me, Mr Shakespeare, but when my own words fail me I must turn to yours -or echo them at least. Since my return it seems the female population of Avonlea have taken with some strange fever that has rendered them incomprehensible.

Diana is always wanting to know whether my waistcoats will tone with some esoteric hue. Last week it was mauve, yesterday it was fondant. The Pye girls have taken to snubbing me, which is as enjoyable as it is disconcerting. Mother has made me so many jars of gooseberry jam I shall need to purchase a second trunk to transport them back to Kingsport. And Ruby has summoned me twice to see her, both times at midday when she knows I will likely be shirtless and up to my knees in red dirt.

Father and Uncle George couldn't spare me but I was excused readily enough. Though the Gillis' will not admit Ruby has consumption the rest of town talk of little else. Both times I cleaned up as quickly as I could and bolted over to White Lily Lodge only to have one of the Gillis women shoo me away like a fly, never offering so much a slug of water before I was sent on my way.

So now I have decided to call on her at a time of my own choosing. Perhaps I could ask Arty how to manage it, I could take him fishing with me and Tommy on Saturday. I understand he's in need of some cheer, not only because of his sister, but because he was set on marrying Nettie Blewett! I shouldn't laugh, I know full well how it feels to have the girl you are sweet on sneered at. If I had a dollar every time someone asked me what on earth it was I saw in Anne Shirley I'd never need another scholarship. I think I'd give half of it back just to have them give me an answer. Because I can't explain it anymore than I understand why some folk look up and see sky, and others see forever.

Miss Lavendar liked to say that Anne is a boundless mix of souls wrapped into one girl, and sometimes I think she is right. As I strolled back to the farm this afternoon I cut through the birch grove by the graveyard and there was Anne talking aloud to herself. At first I assumed it was Matthew she was chatting with and was careful not to disturb her, though I almost relented when I heard her strange speech.

You are a scoundrel, Maximilian -no,_ Maurice! _Anne booms, Unhand the angel of my heart and prepare to face me!

Beware, my love, she continues in a softer tone, You walk into a deception.

But Averil ...dost thou love me true?

Yes, dear Perceval, more than mere words couldst e'er convey!

Whereupon this Averil uses most of the English language to convey exactly that. I had to stop myself from crying out that if Perceval had to stand there and listen to such a speech Maurice could have dispatched him ten times over.

I can only conclude that Anne is attempting to write some humourous sketch, probably for Ruby's entertainment. The two of them, and Diana and Jane, once took every brook and hollow to be their concert hall -though never I think a graveyard. I once hoped that Anne's peculiar ways might rub off on Ruby and willed myself to fall for her. How hard could it be? Ruby is a beautiful girl, uncomplicated, and mine for the asking. I could have kissed her dozens of times -and not only on the cheek.

There is one night I remember especially, when we strolled home from the station on a weekend home from Queens. Ruby was given a box of rose-water candies that she shared with me, and when we arrived at her gate she tiptoed up close and softly blew the dusted sugar from my lips. It was the most electric thing that ever happened to my seventeen year old self. I wanted to kiss her but then Myra and Charlotte appeared, bare armed and bared headed, cajoling me to come inside and I knew then why I would never kiss Ruby Gillis. Because she would tell everyone. Her name and mine would forever be linked. And there would be no more bends in the road, as Anne likes to say, no other possibility for me. Some people look up and see only sky, but others seek infinity.

**… … …**

**_Thursday 30th May, White Lily Lodge, Avonlea_  
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_The Life and Times of Ruby Rose Gillis, Chapter 1,969_

So horribly, horribly tired. Tired of people looking at me that way. What are they looking _for_ I'd like to know? I feel as though I must have some big boil on my nose the way they give me such pitiful smiles. I hate it, I hate being pitied when I once was envied. What I wouldn't give to have one dark look of jealous spite cast my way. I can't bear it. I can't, I can't!

Even that adorable Herb Spencer tears up in my company. Well I shall give him something to cry over, for it won't be long till he hears that Gilbert Blythe has been calling in his absence. I give it till Saturday before he returns to claim me for his own. It might earn my old chum a sock on the jaw but Gil's such a sport I don't see him minding too much -though Herbert is _awfully_ manly he's hardly a pugilist. Then again it would be tragic for Gil to break my darling's nose, it's such an impressive one! Oh, we'll make the prettiest babies one day. Of course I aim to warn Gil of my plan, but each time I invite him to the Lodge I take to terrible coughing spells -Roderick's Cure All tonic does as much good as Roderick's_ Hair _tonic as far as _I_ can see. And Mrs Webber's White-as-White never got the blood out of my blouse! I have a good mind to complain to Mr Lawson, but then he _is_ going to special effort to order me that ivory silk -all the way from _Toronto_.

Still, I can't wait to go to White Sands in the Fall, that is a _proper_ town. I'm so tired of the same silly boys sneering at each other or swooning over me, and I'm tired of poky ol' Avonlea always sticking its nose in and tutting! I've outgrown this place is what this _really_ is -it just took a bad dose of 'flu for me to realise it. All those busy-bodies sniping behind Anne's back saying she had no right to squander Marilla's money when she was only going to marry Gilbert anyway. I used to agree with them but now I see that Anne was _right_. A girl needs to stretch her wings, and I _will_ stretch mine. You wait and see!

**… … …**

**Thank you so much for reading, I hoped you enjoyed that glimpse into Averil's Atonement. Next we'll see Anne attempt to publish it...**


	2. Chapter XII

**Ok, so while the words are running thick and fast I'm going to roll with it and keep the chapters coming. Thank you so much for your feedback -just for fun I have left a message for each of you below :o) By the way I have no idea where Priss lives, and reasoned she must be located in a similar region to Anne as they both went to Queens but are not so close that they can easily see each other. If you know more than I do let me know.  
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**... ... ...**

**CHAPTER XII -Averil's Atonement**

**Friday, June 7th 1884, New Line Road, West Grafton**

**Priss Report #118**

Have just finished my third consecutive reading of Persuasion. Father became so irritated I resorted to telling him that it was a set text for Sophomore English. Oh, that it_ was_. But as fine as the Redmond faculty are -one in particular has caught mine and Anne's _special_ attention- I doubt Miss Austen's work will ever be valued as high literature. Nor Mrs Gaskell, nor George Elliot. If they were I should become a professor myself.

I could write my thesis in a month if I was at liberty to dissect the concept of unity in North and South, or the representation of the marriage in Pride and Prejudice. But instead it is for me to plough through lines of unrequited urgings from powdered and wigged old men. Why is it that love unreturned is considered such a valuable subject of study? Love is for fools and simpletons. But no one will ever write a book about that!

A love like Anne Elliot's and Captain Wentworth's could never exist in the real world. Imagine a handsome, intelligent, eligible man suffering the rejection of his marriage proposal yet still maintaining hope -hope through _years_ of patient suffering- that he might someday win her back? I believe that dapper Dr Kent is right- 'Only a _woman_ could write something as fanciful as that'.

Speaking of fanciful I finally completed my critique of Anne's story. There are elements which I adore, Averil is certainly a handful and not easily tamed, and the villain is a masterstroke. There was one passage in particular I read repeatedly, Anne had created such a powerful presence that I found myself blushing. For the rest it appears she is trying to write some Arthurian legend. There are castles, dungeons and duels. And also, inexplicably, a cake. I really don't see it having much broad appeal. Ancient epics might be required reading but they are not what people _want_ to read. So I suggested that perhaps Anne move the story to a different era. The Regency period would be perfect, then she could still have her duel but would be forced to reword the archaic way her characters speak to each other. One speech was so long I thought I was reading a Mediaeval text and almost went through my trunk to hunt out my lexicon.

Poor darling, she always did have the highest ideals. Part of me feels loathe to pull her down to earth, but I also know she would never forgive me if I was not as honest as I could bear to be. I _so_ wanted to add that I detest the name Averil, which brings to mind a dimply elbowed courtesan. As for Perceval! Well the man certainly lived up to his name, so effete and foppish I half wished Maurice had won the duel and showed Averil what a real man was.

But then what would I know of a _real_ man? I used to feel envious of Lottie -and her enormous land endowment. Now I feel sorry for her. I saw Nate again as I was posting Anne back her manuscript. Each time he comes into our store Father or Laureline are quick to fill his order. But there was no possibility of avoiding him as I exited the post office. I felt the whole of West Grafton's eyes were upon me, and the next thing I knew I was consenting to let him walk me home. I suppose he realised he wasn't to have long in my company and that was why he spoke so abruptly, but nothing can excuse the content of his speech.

Why don't you answer my letters? he sulked.

Because I don't think _Mrs_ Rawley will appreciate it, I spat at him.

He guided me into the alley where our store and the butcher's keep their refuse and it was there he declared that he never wanted to marry Lottie but had no choice. I felt so overwhelmed, the smell of rancid meat and bad potatoes almost choked me. How I wish I had looked him the eye and said very coldly that _I _still had a choice. That I chose to send his letters back to his wife if he so much as looked at me again.

But of course nothing so perfectly formed came from my lips. Instead I began to cry. The stench flooded my throat and for a moment I thought I would heave up my heart. Nate put his hand upon my cheek and that's when I kicked him. I heard the garbage pails clatter as I fled into the store, and looked so pale and unsteady Father ordered me on bedrest -which is why I've had time to wallow in Austen.

I had decided never to commit this event to paper. It makes me uneasy when I think that one day someone might read this, reputations could be ruined. But as I read over it part of me -no doubt a very wicked part- wishes I could send the account to Anne and have her make something of it. Then finally I might have a tale of romance based on reality -with added cake.

**… … …**

**_Monday 28th June, Orchard Slope, Avonlea_**

Dear Journalette,

Anne has finally done it! Her masterpiece is complete!

Oh I am half in suspense but also half relieved. It isn't as much fun as I thought it would be having an authoress for a bosom friend. I feel as if I have been sharing Anne with Averil Lester for weeks. What would Averil say about this? How would Averil describe that? Once when I was wanting her opinion on which stitch I should choose for the wedding breakfast napkins Anne _dropped_ the sampler just to scribble some line that had come into her head. Another time she told me that 'very pretty' cannot really be considered another word for 'pretty'. She _did_ listen to my suggestion for a happy ending but honestly, Journalette, I wouldn't have been _that_ sorry to see the end of Perceval. Averil's fiery temper was far better suited to Maurice. Now there was a _scoundrel!_ Of course, there is a lot to be said for the quiet, sensible type. Besides we don't have scoundrels in Avonlea -Mrs Lynde wouldn't allow it.

Anne hasn't told her or Marilla about her story. No one knows, excepting Mr Harrison and Gilbert and Priscilla Grant -as well as Fred, of course. And I accidently told Minnie-May. Won't everyone be surprised when they find out. Anne has visions of Marilla perusing the latest copy of McCords and spying her name in the index. _Averil's Atonement by Miss A. Shirley_. At first Anne wanted a non de plume but I talked her out of that nonsense. What! I said, and have none of the credit? For a moment it seemed Anne would rather forgo fame for the pleasures of thinking up an alias. Just think Diana, I could at last become Cordelia! It wasn't until I reminded her that if she didn't put her own name to her work anyone, even _Josie,_ could lay claim to it. And that put paid to that!

I wouldn't put it past them either, those Pye girls are shameless. They are mad for that scandilous book, "Guide to the Gentleman". I've heard it is _so_ unwholesome even Ruby refuses to read it. But from what she tells me there are ten rules and if you follow them to the letter men will fall at your feet. So now Josie and Gertie are ignoring every male between eighteen to thirty. If I ignored Fred he would _never_ have proposed to me, I told them. Lucky for us, they said. Lucky for _me_ I think they mean.

Oh, if only everyone could be as happy as we are. Do you know, Journalette he said he didn't mind what colour flowers we have for our wedding because I will be the prettiest coloured flower there. I don't see how I could be when I will be wearing white, but I knew just what he meant. He's so obliging. Though I wish I might draw his opinion on at least one detail of our ceremony. But whenever I mention our special day the very first thing he says is, whatever you like Di-Di.

Isn't that the sweetest little name? I have started calling him Fred-Fred. Only last evening after Alice's party it sounded more like Fred-Fred-Fred-Fred-Fred-Fred because he was burrowing his face into my muslin shirtwaist -the one with the cutwork lace- and pressing his lips all _over_ it. Journalette, it was a sensation! Though afterwards I felt quite soggy. I felt something else too, something I imagine you could read all about in "Guide to the Gentleman".

Oh, it's so long to wait before we may marry. But wait we must, for _everyone_ knows that young brides are made mothers in six months, not nine. Nettie Andrews is _bound_ to be expecting more than a Christmas gift come December. Well I won't have anyone think that about me! All the same it is getting _very_ hard.

**… … …**

**July 5th, Green Gables, in the deepest, darkest depths of despair...**

I am eleven again. Standing by the door of Green Gables as a sharp realisation nails me to the floor.

They don't want me.

My story has been rejected. Oh, Ida, I feel sickened, defective, wretched. As though I have abandoned my dearest, most beloved child to the random cruelty of an indifferent world.

Now I am remembering that terrifying day when a young woman came to the asylum and ordered us to strip to our undergarments so that she might determine our condition. 'Last one up and died after three weeks', she hissed, 'and lumped me with the job of burying of her'. When she discovered I was eight she took particular interest, I suppose because I was tall for my age. The cold dread I felt thinking she might choose me. That will give you an idea of how afraid I was, Ida, because my dearest dream was to be chosen. But to be given to _her_ -I would rather have ended up with Mrs Blewett. I felt so frightened as she pulled at my tongue and stared down my throat, the next thing I knew I was wetting myself and stood there trembling in a puddle on the floor. The matron was so mortified she made me wear my soiled clothes all day, which earned me the name 'Bedpan Shirley'. Bedpanne with an e, I told them.

How I wish I could summon that spirit now. At least before I could tell myself it was not really _me_ who was being rejected only some no count orphan just like hundreds of others. But there is no way for me to gild this pill. This time I _know_ it is me they don't want -the very best part of me at that. I don't even know _why_. If the editor had only offered some criticism. Lord knows I have already had my share, but I don't think I have been overly proud or precious -though I know very well that I can be. I listened to others and to myself, and believed I had written something of significance.

Once Priscilla sent me her evaluation the story took a life of its own. In fact she influenced me more than I care to admit. Priss's own entanglement with Mr Rawley proved so inspiring that I re-imagined Averil an impoverished but genteel young woman forced by her father to marry the ruthless landowner, Maurice Lennox. But Maurice forsakes his bridal night in favour of gambling with the wedding guests, and it is sweet Perceval who presents Averil with her wedding cake. She is so bewitched by the flavour she insists on being taught how to make it and soon they fall deeply and irrevocably in love. It was certainly far more thrilling and original than anything Margaret Burton wrote, so why wasn't it accepted? I had _so_ many ideas for my next story. I honestly believed the publishers would ask me to submit another. And that perhaps one day I would be offered some position, lowly and underpaid to be sure, but some foothold on the literary ladder.

I am sure everyone else will expect it as well. I can hear them now- 'But you won the _Thorburn,_ why can't you write a trifling magazine story?' Mr Harrison will chuckle in that patronising way of his -that I can tolerate, and Diana will be beautifully outraged and probably threaten to cancel her monthly subscription. But Priscilla. _Gilbert_. They will expect the enterprise to be a cake walk -when it's been more like a walk across that ridgepole. Except it is not my ankle but my _soul_ that is crushed.

Diana is waving her flag from her bedroom, I suppose she knows I have received something from the post office today. No doubt thinking I have been offered a permanent contract, complete with an enormous cheque. Oh, Ida, how do I tell her? I suppose I shall just have to. I shall be 'mejum' and grateful for the dreams that _have_ come true. A home at Green Gables and friends who believe in me. I am sure it is more than those fusty, unimaginative editors at McCords could ever boast of. And something they can never take away from me.

**… … …**

***I have no idea what _mejum_ is, and surmised it may be Acadian for medium, ie: finding the middle road. Anne uses the word in ch 38 of Anne of Green Gables in the context of making the best of things.  
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**Wishwars ~you are right, ruby still has an important part to play in this installment**

**Diana ~ vielen dank, liebe! i wonder if you picked up the reason for nettie's popularity? ^^  
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**Guest ~was that fast enough?**

**Bertha ~the first time i wrote the "hazel eye" line i made myself choke with laughter so i'm chuffed you like it too**

**Insubfreak ~ once again your comments give me goosebumps**

**Alinya ~good tip about the jam, though you and i both know it's hardly gooseberry season ;o) as i wrote the opening of this chapter i was thinking of you  
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**Edkchestnut ~cool ideas, i'll see how i can make it work**

**K.B. ~as you see anne had some serious refining of her story to do, she just got a teensy bit excited (heave, heave)**

**JwaP ~who has gil kissed? poor lad must be starting to think he has a force-field around his lips what with ruby, hattie, and anne's hair -should i put the cat amongst it and suggest christine? hee hee!**

**Thank you so much for reading. I believe the next chapter goes into one of Davy's many transgressions and I don't imagine our diarists will have much to say about that. But there is a mention of the many parties Anne has been attending over the summer so why don't we just head there instead?**


	3. Chapter XIII

**Hello again. Sorry for any confusion in the previous chapter. To clarify Nate Rawley married Lottie Dixon for the parcel of land only, which I first mentioned in chapter VI of Redmond Diaries -the first year. As to who is Nettie's babydaddy -we'll just have to wait and see if the child's ears stick out or not ;o) But before that here's a little bit of fun before we say goodbye to dear Ruby...**

**With love and gratitude to L.M.M. & to AlinyaAlethia for her generous help with the music in all these parties :o)**

**... ... ... **

**CHAPTER XIII -The Way of Transgressors**

_**12th July, White Lily Lodge, Avonlea**_

_The Life and Times of Ruby Rose Gillis, chapter 1,978_

_So_ unfair!

Why should Papa punish _me_ for the foolish way my sisters behaved? Now they've all been married off my father is suddenly wary of my reputation and rarely allows me to leave the house. It was bad enough he decided I should postpone my return to teaching until the New Year, but now I am not even allowed to go out! Folks will begin to think I don't care a stitch for frolics and flirting and then my reputation really _will_ be ruined. No one will ever want to marry me. I shall become_ Jane Andrews!_

Anne thinks this could all be solved if I simply make it known that I won't be attending the Penhallows' party. But I just _couldn't_ do that to poor Alice! Half the fellows she invited would never turn up if they knew_ I_ wouldn't be there. Then again I have grown exceedingly fond of Herb, so much so that I scarcely care about being kept at home so long as _he_ keeps calling. But there is to be an especially thrilling addition tonight and I shall just _hate_ to miss it. Gilbert Blythe's cousin has come from New Brunswick to stay at Allwinds for a month and _no one_ can talk of_ anything_ else.

He's supposed to be awfully handsome and every chum who visits me seems to think he is in love with her. Apparently he is the most terrible flirt and teases the girls without mercy. Of course, I know very well he won't mean it, he'll just be passing the time. Besides Anne, Diana and _myself_ there really isn't a girl in Avonlea worth falling in love with. And as Diana is engaged and Anne detests the flirting type I imagine this Mr Blythe is simply bored. Oh, to see his face if _I_ should walk into the Penhallows' parlour, _then_ we'll see who falls in love with whom.

But Papa is resolute. I am not allowed to go, even though I was very good last night and hardly coughed at all. It isn't _fair_, it isn't fair at _all!_

**… … …**

_**July 12, The Palisades, Avonlea  
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Just when I thought this summer couldn't be improved upon -what with Ruby an invalid, Gertie battling hives, and Monty Dander breaking off his engagement to that Mainlander- it seems Providence is about to bless me with yet more good fortune. Well, all I can say is _about time!_

Tonight I was properly introduced to Gilbert's cousin. I couldn't manage it before as Gil had become so used to my snubs that even if I stood squarely in front of him he would pretend not to see me and continue past without breaking his stride. When I finally cornered him at Alice's party he had the gall to inquire after my eyesight as he was under the wrongful impression that I must be going blind.

_In any case, Josie,_ he said, _allow me to assure you that you are not seeing double, this fellow is my cousin, Laird._

_Double?_ The two of them are _nothing_ alike! Though they might share the same brown curls and broad shoulders that is where the similarities end. To begin with Laird has _some_ knowledge of how to charm a girl, for the very first thing he said to me was:

_I see you have succeeded in getting under Gil's skin if he is pretending to find fault with you, for you haven't_ _a_ _one as far as I can see. _

And then he gave me the wickedest wink! This _would_ happen on the one occasion where Anne Shirley wasn't hanging off Gilbert's arm. But in that moment I hardly cared for the next thing I knew I was being_ begged_ for a dance.

He is the son of John Blythe's youngest brother. Of course, it would be my luck that he is not the eldest son but he is certainly a fine dancer. I can barely express the relief I felt after all the time and money we have spent on instructors to be lead by someone who _knows_ what he is doing instead of being trod on by oafs. He is familiar with all the steps we dance in Avonlea and _far _more besides. The coming thing now is the Mazurka, all NB is in a craze for them. Unfortunately _all_ of Avonlea is in a craze for Laird, but like a true gentleman he made sure to give a dance to every girl, no matter how insignificant. Later he asked if _I_ would bring him a glass of punch and in exchange he would share some scandalous tales about Gilbert. But no sooner had he emptied his cup when Alice began flaunting herself in front of him and he was forced to ask her to dance again.

Well I may have only enjoyed one brief moment in his arms but Anne Shirley wasn't even given that! Apparently she spent the entire evening consoling Diana on the back porch after she and Fred had a disagreement. I'm not the least interested in discovering what they quarreled over, it's certain to be boring and pointless. I happened to share a ride with them after prayer meeting on Thursday and the two of them talked about fruit cake recipes the _entire_ time. The Barrys make theirs with whole almonds but Fred's grandmother has wooden dentures and can't chew them properly. They about drove me mad with their tedious to-ing and fro-ing:

_What about halves, Fred-Fred?_

_Not even halves, Di-Di?_

_What about slivers, Fred-Fred?_

_Not even slivers, Di-Di._

As I leaped from the buggy I told them I hoped they both choked on their miserable cake, only to hear that imbecile Fred say, _You see Di-Di, even Josie thinks we shouldn't have nuts.  
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I shouldn't be surprised if they were still arguing over it tonight. But they must have come to some agreement because _Di-Di_ and _Fred-Fred_ emerged from the Penhallow's garden with the most sheepheaded looks on their faces just in time for the last dance. Which is when Anne decided to show up as well. Being the gentleman Laird was quick to ask her to dance but he can't have been very insistent because I soon spied her at the refreshment table piling her plate high with whatever was left and gossiping with Alice. Well I let Laird know I was willing to take Anne's place but he said he felt it was unfair to show favourites and dance with a girl more than once -unless she was the host of course- no matter _how_ much he wanted to.

If only his cousin was as well mannered, but whenever Anne is about Gilbert Blythe behaves as though everyone else is invisible. I had to tell him _twice_ to get me a plate of peach puffs before Anne scoffed the lot. He took such a time about it Laird felt compelled to see what had held him up. The two of them were _still_ monopolising him when the buggy arrived to take me home.

Well, I am determined that the Pyes will be throwing the next party, something out of doors so that we may enjoy some real dancing. Then I shall be the hostess and Laird Blythe will be free to lavish his_ full_ attention upon me!

**… … …**

_**Saturday July 19th, Orchard Slope, Avonlea**_

Dear Journalette,

Say what you like about Josie Pye none but the meanest of hearts would deny her talent for stylish parties. I have _so_ many ideas for my wedding. Josie had strings of paper lanterns in a square marking out the dance floor in their garden. They were peculiar colours, green and blue, which cast a rather strange hue -Anne said she was sure the Pyes did it on purpose in order to make her hair look an ugly, brackish colour. Well I don't know about that but my Fred looked wonderful! Under the green light he didn't look red at all. I believe I shall look into the green glass lamps for our bedside tables.

Josie also invited Mr Sadler! At first I was astonished to see him there, he is always so cantankerous. Anne is the only one who has ever been able to draw so much as a smile from him. Well, would you believe that beneath his grumpy demeaner beats the heart of an honest to goodness musician. He brought along his fiddle and his accordion and played the most wonderful music from the Old Country. At first no one knew what to do. There is never enough space in our parlours for everyone to dance a Mazurka, Josie and Gertie are the only ones I know who bothered to learn it properly. Josie was eager to perform a demonstration because -by design or not- Laird Blythe was the only fellow who knew all the steps. But he insisted upon giving _all_ the girls lessons, and then of course all the boys were coaxed into learning it too. Soon we were laughing and skipping and leaping and counting -it was the best fun. But so exhausting. Each dance takes nearly thirty minutes, so one was enough for me.

Soon enough Anne disappeared indoors. And I knew exactly where she was heading -to the Pyes piano. She is always looking to play, but Mama won't go to the expense of having ours tuned now that I have given up my lessons. Anne decided to try her hand at it in Kingsport -isn't that darling! She has lessons with a Junior named Sebastian Miles who studies music at Redmond. It was so restful to hear her quiet tinkling after all the rowdiness outside. I have decided to ask that Papa has our piano tuned in time for my big day. I think it will be just the thing to entertain the older members of the Barry and Wright clans while we young ones enjoy ourselves in the garden. Of course I won't expect Anne to play, not when she's to be my Maid of Honour -which is fortunate really as she isn't particularly talented. Not that I would ever say so, Journalette, she is quite undone by the second rejection slip from 'Canadian Woman' and I am still at a loss as to how I can cheer her again.

She was picking out a Mazurka with one hand when I found her, one of those simple pieces that Russian composer with the impossible name writes for children. I wasn't the least bit of help to her, Mrs Lawson only knew how to teach good Christian songs, but then Gilbert budged her along and they attempted to muddle out the tune together. I forgot Gil could play piano, the Blythes sold theirs when they went to Alberta. But he sometimes accompanied us during concert rehersal when Miss Stacey was conducting the choir. The Mazurka defeated him too, but I think the sentimental tunes he _could_ play were even lovelier, as did my Fred. He asked if Gil remembered 'Believe me, if all those endearing young charms', I suppose because we are still undecided on what song we will dance to at the wedding breakfast. The words are _so_ sweet, and even though Fred could never say it himself I just know it expresses exactly how he feels about me.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms

Which I gaze on so fondly today

Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms

Like fairy gifts fading away

Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art

Let thy loveliness fade as it will

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart

Would entwine itself verdantly still

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own

And thy cheek unprofaned by a tear

That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known

To which time will but make thee more dear.

Isn't that glorious, Journalette? Though I am sure I have forgotten some of the words, because when Gil sang it seemed much longer. He really has a nice voice -I remember Mama saying John Blythe was a fine singer in his day. Still I can't say in all honesty he makes for much of a teacher because Anne managed to mangle every bar. I never suspected she was such a butter fingers! They had only just come to 'thou wouldst still be adored...' when Gil's cousin bowled into the room and _leaned over_ Anne's shoulder and began to instruct her on one of Chopin's Mazurkas. Well, Anne made an even worse job of that! I'm just sure she played the wrong notes on purpose, and the more Laird teased her the worse she became.

Everyone's in such a pashion for Laird Blythe -I like him myself, though I shouldn't like him to be always living in Avonlea. I was talking about it with Fred as he walked me home. We had Robert with us so we had to keep up some conversation -had we been alone there would have been _no_ time for talk! And I said to my darling that I couldn't say why exactly, when Laird seemed the very image of Gil -in looks, in voice, in manner- why I didn't warm to him the same way. And do you know what Fred said? That Laird is what Gilbert would have become if Anne Shirley hadn't come along and knocked just the right amount of humbleness into him.

I never knew he could be so wise -perhaps he is right about the almonds after all.

**… … …**

**'Believe me, if all those endearing young charms' was written by Irish poet, Thomas Moore, in 1808. I omitted some of the lyrics in order to peak your curiosity and encourage you to look it up and listen to it. It is said that Moore wrote it for his beloved wife who became so disfigured with smallpox she refused to let anyone, including her husband, see her.  
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**Thank you so much for all your reviews, there's nothing I love more than going back over what I have written and seeing the story through your eyes. And if you are now wondering whether I read over my chapters and pretend to be edkchestnut or wishwars or dianastorm, well yes I do! I hope this next chapter comes more quickly, I have been thinking about Ruby's death for a while and always felt it must have affected Gilbert as much as Anne. **


	4. Chapter XIV

**Tissues at the ready... this really came out of nowhere.**

**... ... ... **

**Chapter XIV -The Summons**

_The Life and Times of Ruby Rose Gillis, Day One_

**10 am, Wednesday 20th August, 1884 ~White Lily Lodge, Avonlea  
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At Ruby's request, I, Herbert Spencer, have removed every page of this diary and promise to destroy those books that remain. This is, she tells me, because today is the first day worthy of remembrance.

She is too weak to write now and has asked me to do so in her stead. These are her words~

_I had the most beautiful dream last night. It's been so long since I could close my eyes and see true beauty. I think that is why I've been clinging to this world. But I know now whatever beauty I have, or have seen, is nothing to what I shall see. _

_I will make a home in Heaven and be Mother to tiny angels. I will love them so hard they won't want to come down to Earth. But I shall tell them not to be afraid, that there are Mothers and Fathers waiting for them, to hold them and grow them and love them. And I shall stitch a golden thread through the hair of each one, a little piece of Ruby that will live on in Myra's children, Charlotte's children and Susan's children. In Diana's children and Anne's children. Even Jane's. Even Josie's._

_Even yours, Herbert. No, I want you to be a father. To be a husband. You have loved an undeserving wretch for far too long. I want you to know someone worthy of your heart. I am so sorry, Herb, but I know now that I never truly loved you until this day. Now I feel a love so deep and strong the Ruby I used to be could have lived a lifetime with you and never come close to it. _

_I know you want to marry me ~please dear, I know this is hard, but you must write down everything, can you do that? I know you want to marry me, but that ivory silk was never going to be my bridal gown, only my shroud. Don't tie yourself to vain fancies anymore. They were never real. This is real, though. The feel of the sun that comes through my window. The feel of you sitting on my bed. The sound of the rattle in my chest, and the sound of your pen scratching over the page. I know I shouldn't but I am anxious your tears will smudge the ink, but don't judge me too harshly, dear. This is all that will remain of my thoughts, and while I live I still have foolish hankerings for handsome things and for handsome fellows to do my bidding. _

_I bid you adieu, dear Herbert. I love you with all of my heart. I know what that means now, and though I might wish I had learned it myself without Anne to guide me, I made it in the end. And I am ready._

_Herb, darling. I wanted to write to Anne but I think I will ask Mother to give her the centrepiece I have been working on. Anne will know what it means, she speaks the language that needs no words. But there is one I must write to. Will you do it, Herb? It won't be more than a note. I'm so tired now, and no longer afraid to close my eyes.  
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**… … …**

**Saturday 23rd August, 1884, Allwinds, Avonlea**

_Gilbert,_

_We've been chums for so long, haven't we? You were the first boy to make me cry, the first boy I was just sure I was going to marry. Yet we've always remained good friends. I suppose it's because we love the same person. If you had loved someone else I should have done my worst to win you. But you just had to love Anne. _

_Don't think you have all time in the world, Gil. You must tell her, you must find a way. Anne is so easy to love and so hard to keep hold of. But don't her let go, Gilbert. __Promise me._

_Remember~ Promise, promise! Kiss me quick! Break your word and take a lick!_

_Yours, ever_

_Rapunzel_

There is a bloody thumb smudge by her name. I wonder if the needle she used to prick herself is the same one that sits in the unfinished stitchwork she left to Anne. I can't believe she remembered. The last time we made blood oaths she was eight and I was ten, and about to leave with father for Alberta. I vowed to her that I would come back one day and she vowed never to talk to Jerry Bell. Or was it Sam Boulter?

Of course, she did far more than that. By the time I returned Ruby's name made up at least half the Take Notice signs on the porch. I never once felt sorry about it, merely determined to catch her up. Now she's gone. Leaving nothing but a rusty red smudge and a post script declaring that if any part of my hands had touched it then I am bound to her promise forever. Her promise to what? To never let Anne go? I could let go my right arm more easily. But how can I keep hold of something that doesn't want to be held?

I am ashamed to be angry when Ruby is only hours in the ground. But right now I wish that instead of telling me to make my feelings plain she had told me to forget about Anne. To make me believe there is someone else I could care for. Because none of us has all the time in the world.

Ruby is gone and no one could save her. Not her doctor, not her will, not even love. I feel so helpless, so weak. I want to run over to Green Gables and show Anne her letter. It was her dying wish, Anne, for us to be together! Will you deny her? Will you deny me?

I can't do this anymore.

But it seems I have no choice because Anne is here.

**Later, around 10pm**

I have just spent the last three hours with Anne and mean to collect every word that we shared together and keep it by me so that this time I don't doubt myself.

I heard the click of the gate and looked out my window surprised that Mother and Father had returned from the Gillis' so soon. Instead I saw a hat. Not the one Anne wore to the funeral, her little straw one with strawberries about the crown and toothmarks about the strawberries where Davy Keith decided to take a bite. I was down the stairs before Anne got to the porch.

I came to ask if you would care to take one of our rambles in the woods, she said.

At least she would have. She made it to 'rambles' and then began to cry. I just stood there like a scarecrow, my arms hovering above her shoulders wondering if I was allowed to touch her. Then she leaned into me_, _so close I could see the indentation of Davy's teeth on the red wax fruit. And I could no more hold myself away than stop my heart from beating.

She felt so small in my arms, no matter how close I got there wasn't enough of her. Yet when I rested my hand on her shoulder and drew my thumb along her neck I felt a year had passed, that there were a thousand miles between the collar of her dress and the soft skin behind her ear. It was different to the other times I've held her, when she was simply happy and wanted to share her joy with whoever was closest. This time I knew it was me that she wanted and my arms she sought. She never stiffened or blushed. She just let herself need me. And in that moment I felt like something had been returned; that I really had been living without my arm and woke to find it restored.

Then the brim of her hat caught the side of my face. Anne noticed how I flinched and peered up at me, almost shyly. And I saw that what happened between us a year ago had been no dream. That same expression was in her eyes. The one that told me I was looking at my wife. Her face flushed like a veil being dropped and she said, Do you suppose I shall ever learn the knack of not hurting the ones that I-

She stopped, the next word caught in her throat. If only I had said, Those you love? I envisage that scene again and again and each time I wish I had managed to say those words. But I didn't. Like an idiot I said, Anne, you've never hurt anyone in your life.

Sentimental fool!

Anne cocked her head to the side and glared at my cheek -there's certainly a decent mark there, the kind I got when I was first learned how to shave. Then she turned around and stared into the sunset and I knew there was something she still needed to say. So I grabbed by cap and closed the door, we walked out into the world again and Anne began to catalogue her misadventures. I already knew most of them. Her run in with Mrs Lynde has become the stuff of Avonlea folklore and Fred told me all about the time she got Diana drunk. I wisely bit my tongue as she relayed the tale of the poor drowned mouse, and wondered why her slate and my head never merited a mention. Then she spoke of a quiet regret that Matthew might have lived longer if she had only been a boy, and finally she was ready to put her worry into words.

She said, All those mistakes I was able to put right one way or the other. But this time I can't. I'm afraid that I've done something terribly wrong.

I was sure this must have something to do with Ruby. And though no one had been a truer friend to her these last weeks it was not the time to talk Anne out of her fears, but simply listen to them. It seems Ruby was terrified of dying, not because she doubted her place in heaven but because she would be lonely up there. It's true Ruby could never stand to be alone or let a quiet moment be without giggling or sewing away at something. I don't suppose she let herself consider anything that scared her or made her wonder or feel thankful. Anne had told Ruby that in heaven she would be her best self and that goodness and gratitude would come as easy to her as laughter.

But what if I'm wrong, Gil? I oughtn't to have spoken so freely of mysteries I know nothing about. I should have called on Mrs Gillis, or the Reverend.

I said I hardly imagine Ruby wanted to be lectured at or cried over. I think she just wanted you.

By now we'd reached the apple tree. The fruit was small and hard, just the right size for a slingshot. I told Anne some of my own tales about Ruby and me, about Arty, Moody, even Josie -before she realised she was a Pye. We stretched out on the grass till the first stars pricked at the sky. The Virgin sprawling above us, nestling into the firmament with her arm about her head. I wasn't thinking of Ruby so much as I was drinking in Anne -the way her mouth touched the bare skin above her elbow- when she nudged me, pointing above us and crying out,

A shooting star, Gil! Right through the Virgin's middle, like a needle sewing a ribbon to her girdle.

I made some joke about how the Gillis girls never could resist adding another frill or fancy stitch. Then the two of us got quiet and Anne reached for my hand so we could send out a prayer to our old chum. But what I felt wasn't so much a prayer as a thank you. For the feel of Anne's hand in mine and the knowledge that what existed between us wasn't in my head. It's real. I promise you, Ruby Gillis, I said quietly, I won't ever let her go.

**… … …**

**Thanks for reading and all your encouraging reviews. As I said before I wasn't expecting this chapter to come out the way it did, and I know it stretches credulity for Gil to transcribe that evening with Anne with such accuracy, but I had to go with it. I felt like he could have told you how many eyelashes Anne had in that moment, so that it seemed at least possible that he could remember everything she said. You should know that as I write this I want to yell, No, Gil, don't! It's like watching an accident in slow motion, but I can't stop it now. **

**Next up though, someone tattoos over Anne's baby with a baking powder commercial...  
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	5. Chapter XV

**Good ****day, Anne-ites!** **This is what**** I like to call a 'filler chapter'. But even if a story can't be _all_ be swoon _all_ the time I did promise this story would get_ juicy _-so please tell me if you think that I managed it :o)**

**CHAPTER XV – A Dream Turned Upside-Down**

**_Wednesday 4th September, Orchard Slope, Avonlea  
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Dear Journalette,

I finally have an inkling what Aunt Atossa means when she snaps, 'Be careful what you wish for!' I never could understand it, for none but a simpleton would _ever_ wish for something bad! But now I see it is perhaps a warning not to wish for things we don't really want. Which makes me wonder if Anne has wished on any stars recently, because I don't believe she means to be an acclaimed Canadian authoress after all.

She's more famous than she _ever_ would have been had those magazines accepted her story. Half the folks in our town never open a book but the Bible, let alone read the work of a lady novelist. But a twenty-five dollar prize from a reputable baking goods company -now that_ is_ something to crow about! Yet Anne isn't crowing.

Though it's hardly the first time she's acted peculiar I have at least always known why. When Anne refused to return to school the Andrews said she must have been expelled. When Anne had all of her hair cut short the Pyes said she must have got cooties. When Anne served up the liniment cake the Sloanes said her book-smarts had become an affliction. And all Avonlea called her certifyable for the way she would talk to a flower, and that she was more interested in boys than buildings when the Hall was painted blue. But I knew the truth of the matter and in light of that Anne _always_ made sense -well her own sort of sense. But this is something even _I _cannot fathom.

I ask you, Journalette, what could be more satisfying than having those same small minded tattle-tails -the very ones who thought the _worst_ of my bosom friend- sidling up to Anne, all meek and mild, to ask if she would please _please _sign their copy of her story? Why, I should be strutting all over the Island! But Anne would rather hide.

For the first time ever I found myself talking to _Fred_ about_ Anne_ instead of the other way around. He seems to think it will have something to do with the way Rollings Reliable changed her story. I hadn't realised it at first, having gone through it dozens of times in order to insert the words 'baking powder' into just the right place I wasn't so eager to read it again. Of course, Fred knows the story as well as I do because I had him check over my spelling. Not that he's much of a speller, but I could at least count on him not to tell anyone I was entering Averil's Atonement into the competition. Wasn't I thrilled when I thought of it! I got so excited by the prospect that I forgot to keep the third button rule. Not that it matters, I suppose -Fred-Fred really has the _longest_ fingers!

It was when he was reading out Anne's story to old Aunt Agnew Wright that he noticed, because the dual between Maurice and Perceval was his particular favourite. Well Journalette, it _wasn't_ there! Rollings Reliable had cut it completely! Have you _ever!_ The story just goes straight to the scene where Averil places her bouquet of icy tears on the villain's grave. But worst of all they altered the setting from the early 1800s to the present day! I suppose because baking powder wasn't around eighty years ago. But the story lost so much of its style. Like the time I took the trouble to help Em White make up her first long dress and she went and covered it in purple velveteen bows. And everyone thought it was _my_ idea!

Well, after what they did to Anne's story I expected to find her in high dungeon -such a curious phrase, Journalette, for surely dungeons are low? But when I asked her about it she said she hadn't even noticed. I don't think she's read a _single_ copy that Lawsons gave her, and they gave her hundreds! I'm beginning to think I should never have entered her story at all.

It will take some careful asking, something I might save for a letter because I don't see how I will get her alone between now and her leaving on Saturday. The folks at Green Gables have all laid claim to her last few days. Not that I blame them, she was terribly devoted to Ruby. Myra said it was always after Anne's visits that Ruby slept the soundest. I should have liked to have done more myself but Mama was afraid I would catch consumption. Perhaps now that Ruby has gone a writing career seems a shallow ambition and Anne would rather become a _nurse!_ Wouldn't she and Gilbert make a splendid pair! I could just imagine the two of them setting sail for some exotic Mission before settling down in Avonlea to make curly haired babies.

Why, Journalette! Do you suppose that's why Gilbert Blythe is suddenly floating three feet from the ground? Fred says he has the look of a man who has been given the keys to the Kingdom! We heard his whistle a good two minutes before we saw him arrive on Monday. He plans to keep his colt on our back slope while he is away at Redmond. Apparently the creature went all to fat when Pippa-Fay Fletcher was minding him, so now the greedy goose will have to walk uphill to get to pasture. But Gilbert hasn't reckoned on Minnie-May. She and Pip are thick as thieves and I happen to know my little sister has promised to stuff Domino with apples every chance she gets. But when I said this to Gilbert he only laughed in that carefree, gallant manner which makes Mother ask the hen-house why I couldn't become Mrs Blythe instead of Mrs Wright.

Well, Gilbert knows _something_ and I mean to discover what. Tomorrow will be the final moonlight drive to White Sands this summer. Anne missed the last one on account of Ruby. Of course, it was right that she went to the Lodge instead but _oh_ how I missed her. The stars are only stars without Anne, the sea is only the sea, and soon enough the A.V.I.S. crowd falls into gossip and hearsay. I find myself getting as bad as any of them. I _do_ wish I could be more like Fred. Yes I_ do! _I can just hear that sour faced finger-wagger warning me that I really _should_ be careful about what I wish for. But Fred's so good and quiet and sweet. He would rather say _nothing_ than a bad word, and _never_ know a thing than go to the trouble of asking. And isn't that how we all should be?

**… … …**

**_Thursday 5th September, Green Gables -with sand in my hair and sorrow in my heart_  
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Something has happened, Ida. I have the sensation that Alice must have had when she fell into Wonderland -suddenly too big for the world she has found herself in. It seems strange but the feeling going through me now is closely akin to the day when I knew I had outgrown my beloved brown gloria. No longer able to pretend that the armholes didn't pinch and my petticoats didn't show beneath the hem. I wasn't ready to say goodbye because it wasn't just a dress, it was a closely held dream, and proof -sweet undoubtable proof- that someone cared enough for me to make my dream come true.

As I stood on the shores of White Sands the Island began to feel like that dear old dress. As much as I tugged and pulled and wanted it to fit we just didn't, and I realised I was outgrowing her. How can that be that only a year ago I was afraid to leave, that the weight and the size of my love for the Island was so unwieldy it would need its own trunk? For weeks and weeks I would count down the days till I could come back again. But tonight Ida, as all my old chums sat round the driftwood fire plotting and planning, I found myself thinking about the little blue room at Patty's Place. Whether I should ask Rachel if I might have use of her scarlet and ivory apple-leaf quilt, thinking about where I could source a desk and a chair, and how I would only need to white wash them and add a bolster to the window seat to make it the room of my dreams!

For the first time since I have lived in an asylum I know am happier to _leave_ than to stay.

I suppose it is natural, even expected, to examine one's philosophies after someone close to you has died. When I lost Matthew I knew to my bones that home was where I belonged. But I cannot with an honest heart admit it is Ruby's death which has made me wonder, so much as the kick that my pride took in the days after. When Averil's Atonement won that ridiculous prize I saw with a heart rending clarity that Avonlea and I were destined to never understand each other. We were a bad fit from the first. Such an outspoken, vehement, outrageous child I was. Yet how I wanted to belong. That brown gloria was the pinnacle of that wish -to have puffed sleeves like the other girls, to be thought handsome by the other boys, to have grown ups look at me and not see shortcomings but kinship. Why should a girl with little history and no roots want to abandon what was so hard won? Well I don't want to, not entirely, but I might as well wish I would stop growing red hair. It's just something about me I can't help.

The look on Marilla's face when I told her that before my story won that odious competition it had been rejected by two magazines. Do you know what she said to me this morning, Ida? That I needn't ever feel I had to resort to such _tactics_ in order to pay for my education. And what did Gilbert say? That while one would rather write _masterpieces_ board and tuition must be paid! The two people I respect most both concluding that writing is merely a frivolous hobby meant to keep me in ink and exercise books. But it was more than that, _so_ much more. I felt it to be my highest calling. Suddenly the mysterious way I could conjure worlds and words made sense of me. Surely it meant that I too was destined for the writing life.

I loved my story, Ida, and I wrote it with the best that was in me. Averil wasn't just my heroine, she was my confidante. Maurice gave expression to the shadow side of my spirit -of course, I would never let him score victory over my better self, but secretly he was a joy to write. And Perceval. I think I was half in love with him. No, Ida, I _know_ I was. He represented every ideal I cherish in a romantic hero. To have him dwell within the pages of a respected periodical only added to his charm. But to be reduced to a mass produced pamphlet! To have the words 'Rollings Reliable' come from his own sweet lips -it is worse that being proposed to by Charlie Sloane!

I deserve nothing but derision. And what did I receive from Avonlea? Congratulation, admiration, even envy. Josie has been saying that she is sure she read the same story in another publication, and there is a part of me -a mean, proud-hearted part- that wants to agree. After all, the story is so changed from what had originally been submitted it would not be such a stretch to say the work is not wholly mine. If not for the hurt it would cause Diana, and the shame it would bring to everyone else, I think I really could let those Pyes win the day. But as ever I must pay for my folly as for my crime and endure _such_ humiliation, made all the worse because almost everyone is so _proud_ of me. They are saying that I have put Avonlea on the map!

Oh, I cannot _bear_ to think of what Stella will say, or Priscilla! I can just see Neil's face -as the editor of the 'Rave' he won't fail to see how ridiculous I am. I suppose Sebastian won't laugh too long, he should be glad of twenty-five dollars of anyone's money. But Margaret Burton! _Phil!_ She will _never_ let me hear the end of it. I shall have to ensure that Rollings Reliable _never_ darkens the door of our pantry. I foresee Gilbert attempting to shield me from the worst but it will be with a half a heart. He doesn't understand. He is made of the same stuff as the rest of Avonlea, with no more idea of me building a career and a reputation from writing than Rachel Lynde.

We were strolling along the water's edge, lingering behind Fred and Diana as they discussed flower arrangements, when Gil suddenly offered up_ his_ opinion. 'I've always liked white roses myself, what about you, Anne?' There was nothing to say but that I favoured pink. 'Pink are Mother's favourite, too,' he said. I gave him such a look, as if to say when have _you_ ever cared for buttonholes, Gilbert Blythe? If only he had winked at me and continued our discussion on Schopenhauer's contention that only compassion can drive moral acts. Instead I had the sinking sensation that he and I had begun to plan our _own_ wedding.

I won't pretend I haven't thought about it, Ida. My marrying Gilbert. How could I not when it is the highest ambition all Avonlea has for me. Sometimes the idea feels so close, like it did when we lay under the stars the evening of Ruby's funeral. I remember thinking how easy it was to be with Gil, and then I think how easy it would be to just fall into courtship the way Fred and Diana did. The way Robert and Mary-Ruth, Charlotte and Milton, and Billy and Nettie simply settled on each other, taking no more trouble over romance than the shore takes to bring in the tide.

But I don't want something you can set your nets by. I want the _storm_. I want to be rained on and wet through with such a _deluge_ of feeling I can scarcely breathe. To know there is only one in all the world meant for me -to have the love Averil and Perceval had for each other. To fall on my knees and know I would prefer death than to live without _him_. I could never have that with Gilbert. There's no mystery about the man, I never have to wonder what drives him or what he's feeling. I just know.

He would have it that he knows me too. Well, if that is so then he will _know_ to cease all this talk about roses -pink, white or otherwise!

**… … …**

**There you go, she said it. Out loud. On paper. No confusion about that. I wonder if you will ever read another word I write? I hope so because next we meet Stella and the girls of Patty's Place attempt to murder a cat.  
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**Amy -I have wondered if my comments were at all wanted, so cheers :o)**

**Diana -Thank YOU, darling. That's all I'd like to say.**

**Jenn -I loved what you wrote to me. It is so reassuring to know that the messy ideas in my head are coming out not only legibly but believably. Thank you so much!**

**Astrakelly -Glad you enjoyed RD -1st year. It's a little lighter than year 2 which has a lot more angst, but is still I hope a good read.**

**Alinya -Fave line 'Gil is running over with love for Anne' Trust you to make your reviews as gorgeous as your writing.**

**Mountainviewgirl -I am especially glad you enjoyed Ruby's entries, that means a lot.**

**GoDons - Long time, mate! Thank you so much for your words. Ch 14 really killed me to get right, so your appreciation is the cherry on the top.**

**Katherine -Cor! Exclamation mark away, my dear! If only it was as swoony writing it as it was reading it! (By the way, sorry for the confusion about my last review. Cor, just means heck, goodness, wow, and is usually part of the expression 'cor blimey!')  
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**Bertha -Hoorah, I love a good click! Consider it payback for all the times you've given one to me.**

**Edkchestnut -Thank you for noticing that line about Josie. Love that girl, may her tongue never be tamed.**

**LilyFLux -Wow, thank you! For such prolific writer that's some compliment :o)**


	6. Chapter XVI

**Hello, Anne-ites! Yes, I am back again. I left you a note on my profile but for those who like absence notes mine was due to an unexciting mix of a broken lap top, lost momentum and too many ideas for future stories intruding on my current one. **

**To recap, Anne and co have just returned from a five chapter long summer vacation where Ruby died, Averil's Atonement won a competition, and Gilbert realised that friendship just won't cut it anymore. Of course the remaining chapters will focus on that last realisation, but first we have the attempted murder of a poor unfortunate cat...**

**With love and gratitude to L.M.M. -everything is hers, only this idea is mine**

**... ... ... **

**CHAPTER XVI –Adjusted Relationships**

**Sunday, September 8****th**** 1884; Patty's Place, Spofford Avenue**

_**Priss Report #201**_

Am having to write this in bed as Stella has taken possession of the desk. This room may be large but I fear it is not made for two –at least not two like us. The success of sharing a room depends on a merging of differences. Unfortunately we are too much alike.

We both like to sleep on the left, we both like to write in the evening, and we both have too many hats and too little furniture. As Stella had been teaching far longer I expected she would bring her own desk. Instead she arrived with nothing more useful than photographs and knickknacks. Though the only things to have emerged from her trunk so far are two shepherdesses under an arch of flowers, and a gilt frame gone to brass with over-polishing bearing the face of a solemn eyed girl.

'Who is that?' I asked Stella, not unkindly, though not with much warmth either. The eyes in that picture seem to look straight inside me so that I felt I should go to the washroom to change into my nightgown.

'That is Miss Mallory,' she replied, repositioning the frame to where it had been before I added my own collectables to the mantelpiece. She returned to the desk with the air of one who means to be there a good long while, whereupon I pointedly retrieved my journal from where it sat by her elbow and climbed into the bed.

It is a massive piece of furniture with dark posts at each corner depicting a unicorn hunt, and draped all over with a thick, scarlet velvet -the very thing Averil Lester would have flung herself on in that tower of hers. When Anne and I had looked over our house last April the sight of that bed astonished me, and I assumed it would be placed into storage so that we might put two singles in its place. There is no chance of that now. Along with Miss Patty's request that we not nail any new pictures into her willowleaf wallpaper, she left a half-hearted apology that there was no way of moving the bed without breaking it up as it was constructed in this very room.

_I had supposed I was letting Patty's Place to three girls not four_, the good lady wrote in her curly copperplate, _and had therefore not reckoned on its needing to be removed._

This is the fault of that Philippa Gordon! Anne and I told her before we left for the Island last spring to write Miss Patty of her coming. Of course she only managed to inform her last month, when the Spoffords were already in sailing down the Danube. So it looks as though this year Stella and I will not only be in fierce competition for hat hooks and desktops but mattress space as well.

I don't expect to have much cause for worry on that count at least. Stella is a tiny thing, smaller than I ever remember her being. In truth she has become quiet gaunt. The hollows under her eyes and cheeks put me in mind of a bird of prey. Something small and fleet -a kestrel. Her dark eyes large and looming, her mouth sharp, her nose pointed. Her little brown hands are always rubbing upon a large silver locket at her throat, that is when she is not running its chain between her lips. I can hear it now -zip zip zip- above the scratching of her pen.

She is writing a letter she told me, and so must have the use of the desk or her words would begin to slope and become indecipherable. When we were last together at Queens she might have said something similar but her tone would have been quite different; quieter, less sure, as though she needed me to agree with her. But somewhere in the three years since we have seen each other she has decided to make up for her size by developing an imposing demeanor. Had I been sharing this room with Anne I would have given way happily –the divine Miss Shirley can convince the grass to grow blue! Not that there would be much to give way to. Though neither Stella nor myself are blessed with many worldly goods (Phil is a law unto herself) we still managed to bring seven trunks between us. Anne had two. _Two!_ And one of those was filled with Rachel Lynde's quilts.

I can't help thinking that she and Stella would make for a much better fit. For as well as having almost no possessions Anne can write anywhere -on her knee, in her bed, out on the porch, up in a tree! She has yet to buy a desk of her own and after registering at Redmond on Monday means to scour the junk shops for just the right one. But I can't ask her to swap knowing how she longed for the little blue room. Besides if it weren't for Anne I would now be taking tea with the cushions at St John's Street.

It is only that there is something about Stella that stirs up a willful contrariness in me, to the point where I have become territorial about her silly shepherdesses coming onto _my_ side of the mantle piece. Zip, zip, zip- she goes again. I notice she has removed my leghorn bonnet from the hook behind the door and hung _her_ kimono onto it. Well let us hope she can learn to sleep on the right side of the bed, because in this I am determined not to give an inch!

**… … …**

**September 13****th****, Patty's Place, Spofford Avenue**

_**The Rose Notebook**_

Oh! I shall _never_ get tired of writing that address. It still seems a dream that I live here! Hark at me, I sound positively Anne-ish! I wish I knew the trick of living as modestly as she does. My dear little room is _so_ overcrowded -my dressing room at Mount Holly is bigger! Didn't Father laugh when he inspected my little bolthole to see whether it was suitable for a Bolingbroke Gordon.

"Surely this is the maidservant's room!" he winked.

A nasty joke I think, after he refused to allow Cora –or any undermaid- to accompany me. Surely a servant would be more comfortable in that room off the kitchen -certainly _far_ more useful. Stella is adamant her Aunt Jamesina won't lift a finger to help me. The lady is to come with _two_ cats and the _one_ intention: to be a sort of chaperone. Though what she will be chaperoning when we will only be entertaining _once_ a week. I forgot I had agreed to that. The chance to reside on Spofford Avenue –with three of the goodest creatures ever to hail from a potato patch- was so delectable I believe I would have agreed to a thousand cats and no mannies at all!

Stella Maynard is a killing addition to our troop. So forthright and determined she reminds me of a little black caboose; doing all the work, taking none of the glory -don't I love a girl like that! But then I'm not sharing a room with her. Not a night has passed when I haven't overheard her and Prissy butting heads over something. The reason I am left by my little old self this afternoon is because neither girl could agree who should have their chair by the west window. Stella claimed the spot first, with such a nasty green, brocaded thing -I would be throwing it _out_ the west window, myself. Then Prissy insisted on putting her chair there -hers being only marginally more stylish than Stella's -arguing that she needed the light to write by since she could never get near their desk in the evenings.

I don't have such a problem myself having claimed the dining room as my own personal study. Well, there is no way for _me_ to fit a desk in my room. A sleigh bed, two armoires, a dressing table, and a vanity are already crammed along every bit of wall. One can barely see a lily of my Aubusson rug. I have to use the mirror in the hall when I want to take a full view of myself -and Father said I would _never_ cope with the hardships! Well Prissy and Stella are learning the fine art of compromise too. They are off with Anne to see if they can discover a double desk to replace the one they have now, and then Anne can have their smaller one. What a happy, helpful bunch we are!

I am doing my bit too. Tomorrow I am to procure a bottle of chloroform. I shall have to go all the way to Fitch's Apothecary because Nelson's isn't open on a Saturday. It means two tram rides but this time I shall keep my fare somewhere more suitable than the finger of my glove. Then it will simply be a matter of tucking that ugly brute under a crate and I shall never have to listen to his nasty mewling ever again!

_**The Ochre Notebook**_

It was cats that put me in the ochre mood. Is there a corner of Kingsport not overrun with the flea bitten fur balls? Thank goodness Anne saw sense at my suggestion to do away with the mangy beast. I half expected her to shoot me one of her unflinching grey-eyed stares, piercing me to the marrow so that I am almost compelled to feel sorry. But since 'the Averil debacle' Anne has become so sensitive to the slightest hint of mockery, and confessed to me she thought she was receiving teasing looks from passers-by because they recognized her as the winner of that atrocious baking parchment prize (well it had something to do with the cooking.) Fortunately her current embarrassment can be dealt to swiftly –and will teach that cat to pester my chum through all Kingsport.

Poor Anne, how many more indignities can one girl suffer! Though am I not also tainted by association? For who else could have inspired Queen Anne's heroine but yours truly. There I am for all to see, the bewitching beauty, Averil Lester, reduced to selling culinary goods! What's more I am certain Anne modeled Perceval on Alec and Maurice on Alonzo –down to his roguish, twinkling eyes! I must admit I was so taken with that villain I thought I had _finally_ decided which mannie to marry. But then Averil ended up with Perceval which set me to wondering if Anne thought Alec was the better catch after all. So now I am back to square one and so fed up I would happily wrap both boys in parchment till I can't tell either apart, and throw a hatpin at one of them to decide it once and for all. Oh, if only _all_ my problems could be rid of as easily as cats!

**… … …**

_**Patty's Place, Saturday 14**__**th**__** September 1884 ~One hundred and ten days without you.  
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Darling Mags,

You're laughing at me aren't you? Oh this cruel little jest had your name all over it. I stood there today, shovel in hand, looking into the freshly dug grave I had made, so sure I could hear you. Of course Priscilla pointed out the hole was far too large for a cat corpse. But I wasn't thinking of a cat, was I, my love? I was thinking of you. I was remembering how your loved ones threw posies and earth upon the box you lay in while I could not. I was remembering how your pale face stared down at me from your third floor window when I wasn't allowed inside. I was remembering your graceful beauty when you danced yet I wasn't allowed to hold you. I was remembering all the things that have kept us apart. What is death but another kind of separation? I am well used to that.

What I am not used to is a fluttery socialite like Philippa Gordon being knowledgeable in the ways of murdering cats. What I am not used to is Anne Shirley agreeing to murder one. What I am not used to is sharing my room with a very spiky Priscilla Grant. And what I am especially not used to is feeling that you are still here with me.

I thought once I left Riverside I could escape you. We have no history in this town. There is nowhere for me to cast my eye and then catch my breath at your unexpected, all pervading memory. You belong on the herringbone walk. You belong under the sweet scented wisteria arch. You belong in the warm, dank air of the darkroom. At Redmond I thought I would be free of you. Not that I want to forget you, darling, I only want to begin to live again; to remember that though you died I did not.

Is that what you were trying to tell me, Mags? Did your mischievous spirit wander all the way over to Spofford Avenue and whisper into the ear of its ugliest cat to follow the first angel it could find –one that would require me to dig its grave only to fill it in again. _Earth to earth. _When Anne declared she could no longer face the thought of ending Rusty's life I returned to the hole and I sank to my knees. Shovelling madly, pressing you down-

"What are you doing!" Priscilla wanted to know. "No need to make such a job of it, there's nothing in there."

It was then that I could finally I let myself cry. Then Priscilla began to cry too! We fell upon the mound of dirt making messy mewling sounds as ugly as anything Rusty makes.

"Don't ask me why I'm crying and I won't ask you," Priscilla sniffed.

I thought about those letters she has stuffed into a hatbox under our bed and wished she had taken my advice and burned them. _Ashes to ashes. _Instead I said,

"Let's plant something here. Now. Tonight. Let's divide up some of the Naked Ladies clumping by the front gate and place them right where we dug this hole."

You should see my hands, Mags. Red raw and blistered. I can hear you telling me how my writing has become indecipherable, how I should have worn gloves for all that digging. Priscilla wants to smother them with her Otto of Roses, but I had to write to you first, my love. To tell you that just like Anne's cat I have decided to live again.

Ever,

Stella

**… … …**

**I would like to give especial thanks to those of you who sent me encouraging PMs while I wasn't writing -knowing you were wanting more was an incredible feeling. I am so grateful to have you along for the ride :o)**

**Next it's another Davy adventure, but I thought the girls at Patty's Place might like a night on the town...**


	7. Chapter XVII

**Hello again! What a brilliant response to the last chapter, and there I was thinking you were only wanting to read about Anne and Gil ;o) I suppose given the title of this chapter you're expecting something about that little boy. I hope what I have written instead doesn't disappoint too much -well I did promise juice!**

**CHAPTER XVII -A Letter from Davy**

_**Friday, September 29th; Patty's Place, in my delicious blue haven, at my delightful new desk, with my dear old pussems curled in my lap.**_

Welcome Ady!

How do you like your new home, isn't this desk such a dear little piece of history? None of your whitewashing here, I'm afraid, this is a proper antique! To think it was here the _whole_ time, in the very next room, when I had trawled through every stall and emporium in Kingsport. I _thought_ I would spend that wretched prize money on something that would raise my literary spirits, and what could be more fitting than a handsomely crafted desk? Yet even with pockets stuffed with filthy lucre I found nothing to tempt my eye. Though I must tell Marilla I saw the exact likeness of her larch-wood table for _fifty_ dollars!

I am glad Rachel turned down our neighbour's offer to buy my tobacco stripe quilt. The scarlet and ivory looks so homey on my bed and makes the blue of my room even bluer. I feel as though I slept in a warm afternoon sky and have decided to keep all my bolsters and pillows as white as the clouds the chase across the harbour. Once I have that emerald armchair up here it shall feel as hunker-downish and dreamy inside as our dear little cottage looks outside -with the red of the brick, the green of the pines and the billowing, blowsy blue…

I am so impatient to have my room finished! I told myself I wouldn't write a line in you until it was done. Ida knows how particular I am about the importance of starting as you mean to go on -and I need as many graceful debuts as I can muster. That Diary is now tucked up in drawer, fat with the words of my first year at Redmond and happy, I think, for you to take your fill, darling Ady.

You are a darling! Bound in a velvety suede of cornflower blue, each page bearing a watermark of a rose unfurling, and scented with those self same blooms. Yes, I admit you were an indulgence –even Phil raised her eyebrows when she saw me unwrap you, and she is the _most_ extravagant creature. She used almost a_ whole pound _of sugar to top her very first batch of ginger-breads. Good thing too, Ady, for they were like cobble stones. But we thrifty minded Islanders did our best to get them down. Fortunately for Phil's tender feelings that was the day Moody and Gil lugged the new desk up to Priss and Stella's bedroom. Such a hefty piece, solid oak with veneers of walnut which when you peer at closely make a wood goblin's face. After such exertions -not only of brawn but of brain; we needed _all_ Euclid's wisdom to manuoevre it up our higgledy staircase- Moody was keen to earn his reward and declared it _delicious!_ Though I am not certain if that is because Mrs Spurgeon-MacPherson is a spectacularly bad cook or because her son was rather taken with the baker of those bricks.

Gil took one look at them and decided he would rather get on with shifting the other, smaller desk into my room. He placed it exactly where I wanted it too, by the little tiled fireplace. I suppose because he knew I would never get any work done if I kept it by the window. There is such a wondrous view of the pines –and the _smell_ of them, Ady, it would draw Paul's rock people out from hiding such is its power to enchant.

I do wish Gil would arrive. He said he would help me move Stella's armchair this afternoon and it is already after five. I must ready myself for tonight, Mr Miles, Mr MacDonald and Phil's sundry victims are due in just over an hour. One of them sent her the most exquisite bouquet of tiny white rosebuds. They only succeeded in annoying her because we hadn't the right sort of crystal bowl to display them, so she poked them into a jam jar. I think they look glorious, like little stars shooting into the room.

Oh, I can hear a commotion downstairs-

**to be continued...**

Gilbert Blythe has a _bloody_ nose! He arrived not half an hour ago with rust red spatters all over his white shirt (his tie was worse, he had removed that in order to clean up his face before he arrived.) The foolish boy decided to take revenge on those nasty oafs who shaved off half of Moody's hair on Monday. Would you believe Avonlea's _finest_ son put mustard powder into their hats during Chapel, so that when they put them on again they doused themselves with a powdery fire. He didn't even run, he said, but stood there in the vestry watching them stagger and choke, a flask of water in his hands -which he refused to give them until they gave their word they would apologise to Moody.

One of his targets was Neil's younger brother, an unrepentant bully and a resolute Lamb. After he had Gil pinned down and pummelled he went straight to the Dean to demand his expulsion from the fraternity and the debating team. They will only be hurting themselves if they go that far, but I fear Gil has done the same. The MacDonald family run the 'Daily Express', and I know Gil was hoping to secure work in the printing room three evenings a week. He earned half what he hoped to this summer. Allwinds kept him so busy, as did the Wrights, and I know he must be as mindful of money as I am. Redmond only offers one full scholarship for sophomores, in Art History worse luck.

Of course gliding on the coat tails of Philippa Gordon means all _my_ fun is usually paid for. Her victims are always showering her with tickets to concerts and plays. I could never afford to attend the Charity Gala tonight if George Parker hadn't left four tickets inside a box of Belgian chocolates. The tickets Phil was glad to share, but I thought the chocolate had been well and truly scoffed until I saw her feeding them to Gil as he lay back on our sofa.

Oh _Gilbert!_ Of all the unthinking, irresponsible, ridiculous things to do! I am half proud, half mad -and _all_ nerves; wanting very much to bundle him out the door. Not only because of what Neil MacDonald will say –or _do!_- when he sees him here, but because I know how much Gilbert would have enjoyed this Gala. There is to be a presentation by an eminent explorer –Phil is dreading the speech and is urging us all to forgo dessert and make an early escape to the Ball Room. But I know that Gilbert would drink it in.

You know, Ady, I suddenly no longer care about fussing with ribbons and pearls. I will wear my charcoal georgette after all, it always looks best with simply styled hair- Stella just peeped round my door to ask whether I still wanted Gil to haul her old chair to my room. Now he is bound to meet Neil and Seb and wonder why I didn't ask them to bring it up instead. I must go, Ady –if only to rush that incorrigible Mr Blythe out the door!

**… … …**

**Friday 29th, Glenaeon St, Kingsport**

So that was Sebastian Miles. I can see why Anne needed me to shift her armchair -and move desks, and shove pianos to different corners, and chop up a weeks worth of wood. The poor fellow's arms are so twig-like he had better not bring sit too close to the fire or they are likely to combust. I don't expect MacDonald has much skill with an axe either. Though he is a better fellow than I believed. When he turned up at Patty's Place I thought I was in for a black eye next, instead I received a hearty handshake and a slap on the back.

Heard what you did to my thug of a brother! he laughed. You might lose your place with the Lambs, Blythe, but you certainly have one at the Express.

Neil has completed his BA and took up his position at his father's paper last month. I admit I feel some relief at his assurance. I need the work. Though now I have made an enemy of the younger MacDonald I am slightly wary. That weasel has it in his power to make things very difficult for me. But perhaps he will think twice before preying on an Island boy. Poor old Moody. Yet he won't help himself. I have tried to persuade him to have all his hair cut short but he insists on keeping the longer side.

I suspect I am losing my powers of persuasion. When I saw Anne dressed so simply I assumed –or rather hoped- she wasn't going to the Gala, and asked if she cared to take an evening stroll -there is to be a full moon tonight, large and gold like a low, lost sun. There was a moment when I was sure Anne wavered, after I'd lugged that armchair into her room and she pulled my tie from my waistcoat pocket to inspect it. I had this powerful sense I was remembering my future. There was that copy of Shakespeare. There were my Michaelmas daisies. There was my tie in the laundry basket. There we both stood, hands on our hips, surveying the furniture which seemed to dance about the bed.

The bed. Where Anne sleeps, dreams, perhaps thinks of me. Yes, I asked her for a stroll but for a long moment the only steps I wanted to take were the three to her bed. To sweep her up, the way Miles could never hope to, and lay her on her red and white striped counterpane. Lay kisses on every red and every white part of her body. It was then my nose began to bleed again.

She ordered me to tilt back my head and I noticed that her ceiling was painted all over in tiny white stars. Anne must think of me, I reasoned. How could she look up at that every night and without recalling the evening we spent under the Virgin's sky? She guided me over to the green chair, her hand on my shoulder, her handkerchief under my nose.

What am I going to do with you, Gilbert Blythe? she sighed.

I didn't dare tell her.

**… … …**

**Saturday 30th September, Patty's Place?  
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_**The Ochre Notebook**_

Am I _dead?_ Is this _Hell?_ It feels like Hell. Oh dear Lord, do you expect _me_ to endure this for all eternity? I can barely survive the next minute!

I write this now –I use the term loosely, scrawling would be more accurate- in order to piece together the baffling, dizzying, excruciating events of last night. I find I can recall the evening we spent at the Gala without _too_ much embarrassment. It is what happened next that is turning my insides into a nest of snakes. Oh, Phillipa, what did you _do?_

I remember taking the last tram to Sholto's tavern, and Mr MacDonald plying us all with the most exquisite vintage of Canard Duchene –my _absolute_ favourite! If he wasn't such a red cheeked, stolid sort I would pilfer him from Anne and keep him for myself. Then we were rudely tossed out onto the cold streets of Kingsport and -after an _interminable_ wait for a ride that never came- Stella Maynard began to shunt me up Gosforth Street, insisting we girls walk home!

_Walk!_ In my heels? I was all to blisters in minutes. What a dismal procession we must have made. Anne and Mr Miles tugging my sorry self along, with Stella and Prissy up ahead wailing _Farewell to Nova Scotia_ into the night like fishwives in the slums. I was about to knock on the door of a hovel and beg for a bed when who should appear from an alleyway like Anne's demonic cat but the angelic Gilbert Blythe!

"What no chariot for your ladyship?" he laughed at me.

There were all sorts of salty exclamations next as we tried to ascertain why on earth he was stalking the streets at two in the morning, when I -oh, I can scarcely write for the revolting blush going through me- I commanded Mr Blythe to _carry_ me back to Patty's Place. Well, I really couldn't go another step, and there was no way a weedy creature like Mr Miles could manage it. Gil had me up in his arms the next moment. I felt as weightless as a scrap of silk flung against his chest, which I admit I nestled into a rather immodestly. I _could_ blame the champagne -in fact I believe I did. Which is a pity as it means I have no fresh excuse for what followed.

Upon arriving at the cottage Stella and Prissy ran pell-mell up the stairs, slamming their door on the rest of us without so much as a Farewell Nova Scotia! Mr Miles, however, was content to dawdle on the porch steps with Anne. So Gilbert carried me up to my room and onto my bed, yet my hands _refused_ to let go of him.

'Are you ill?' he said.

He was so close I could make out the blue bruises emerging from under his eyes -which looked almost gold. And _that's_ when it struck me.

'It's you!' I squealed. '_You_ are Maurice!'

He told me I had evidently muddled him with one of my victims. And I _was_ muddled, I felt so churned up and giddy -Maurice and Alonzo and Gilbert all merging into one- as I gripped his neck more tightly, until his mouth was by my ear and... oh I feel _sick_ to recollect it, let alone write it! he murmured-

'When I kiss a girl, Phil, I want to be sure she will remember it in the morning.'

All at once my hands were down by my sides, then he pulled up the blankets of my unmade bed and was gone. I have been lying here _mortified_ ever since. Gilbert Blythe assumed I wanted him to _kiss_ me! But did I? I simply _cannot_ decide! Not that it matters. Gilbert believed I wanted it -and worse, _far worse,_ had the nerve to resist me! Now I don't know whether I _detest_ him or am in _love_ with him. But shall I be allowed to luxuriate in that particular woe? I shall _not_. Instead I must turn my poor sore head to more pertinent matters –of how I am going to persuade the girls to run after me, when they will be busy getting our house in order for the arrival of this Jamesina woman. Oh, I _knew_ we should have hired a maid!

**… … …**

**Saturday 30th September, a picture of pique at Patty's Place**

GILBERT BLYTHE!

What does he _mean_ by walking the streets at two in the morning? What does he _mean_ by carrying Philippa Gordon (who actually deserves her own capital enhancement now I think of it- THAT GIRL!) all the way back to Patty's Place? And what does he _mean_ by lingering about the porch as Seb and I said goodnight, as conspicuous and welcome as spinach in teeth!

Dear Mr Miles. He was attempting to demonstrate the fingering of Schubert's allegro for four hands upon the porch banister –not that I had a hope of following it, in fact I was longing for bed. Then Gilbert appears at the front door with the air of a father summoning his daughter -he actually bid Sebastian goodnight on _my_ behalf- and worse, Ady, Sebastian took one look at Gilbert's face and fled!

I suppose he does look rather fearsome, his eyes are beginning to blacken now. Serves him right! I hope his nose is broken -Phil loathes ugly noses. Ugh, I sound jealous. But I assure you, Ady, I am _not_. I happen to love those two fools a great deal more than either of them deserve at the moment. But they are so _unsuited_. Though Phil likes to say that Gilbert sees her as nothing more than a kitten he'd like to pet, I believe it is she who would use Gil like a plaything. She doesn't understand the Island way. She flirts with _everyone!_

Not that it matters to me in the least –if they really _did_ care for each other. But would Gil have been in such a hurry to get downstairs if he truly loved her? No, the whole thing is too farcical and I have simply had too much champagne. I must say I am beginning to like it now! Let us hope Stella's aunt likes it too.

Now to make an unlawful noise right outside Miss Gordon's door!

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**The cheeky reference to 'Avonlea's finest son' was because I adore that story. It's written by Laurie1, and though unfinished is one of the best pieces of writing about Gilbert Blythe I have ever read.**

**So, how was that for a bit of fun? I hope you had a giggle :o) Next we have one of my favourite scenes, where Gilbert is 'looking at Anne just as if... just as if... well it's very embarrassing!'  
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**bunnybee:** thanks for your great review, i think you and i are of the same mind when it comes to the girls of patty's place!

**Bertha:** i'm glad i'm back too, losing all my work at the same time i was losing my mojo -not pretty. thanks for waiting for me :o)

**Vicky:** thanks for your encouragement -it's funny the way the room sharing angst has resonated with so many, ha ha! i will indeed be taking your tech savvy advice ;o)

**Alila:** what an astonishing review, i find your writing beautiful too, and sincerely hope you decide to write something here. thank you for your kind words about Stella, it really mattered that i found her voice, for her story to have touched you was incredibly heartening. you are a very generous soul :o)

**Diana:** as always, thank you, babe. and may i ask how your writing is going? ;o)

**Alinya:** i am glad those tears seemed believable, i was rather stunned at it happening myself!

**Edkchestnut:** consider yourself spared from davy, ha ha! and you should know whatever thrill you feel when you see i have updated is exactly what i feel when i see you have left another review. thank you!

**K.B.** i was just as excited to find my way back to patty's place too. as for other stories... well, i am planning a modern day Anne of Green Gables set in small town california, and one in a new canon altogether, a sequel to Frances Burnett Hodgkins 'The Secret Garden'. I 'ship Mary and Dickon like i 'ship Anne and Gil ;o)

**Thank you!**


	8. Chapter XVIII

**Chapter XVIII -Miss Josephine Remembers the Anne-girl**

_**October 19**__**th**__** Glenaeon Street, Kingsport; 1884  
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Happy Birthday, old fellow. Twenty-three today and still glowing in the remnants of a startling gift. I've had that dream again. The one where Anne and I are lying on the grass and I look up at the night sky and see the Virgin and the Virgin becomes Anne. She hovers above me, her arm about her head and her hair wild with stars. Her eyes are closed yet she knows I'm there. But tonight was different. Tonight when I reached up to her she fell toward me, or rather she fell through me so that when I kissed her I didn't feel her lips upon mine but was absorbed by her. Pulled in so that I almost drowned. And I wanted to drown. Wanted to fall deeper and deeper and never wake again.

_**November 30**__**th**__** Glenaeon Street, Kingsport; 1884  
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This time I could feel her. She wears a dress of velvet midnight. I felt the warmth of her body under my hand, felt the curve of her waist, the curve of her breasts, the curve of her mouth that tells me she wants my hands upon her. I draw a fingertip across her lips, upon her nose, trace along her auburn brows -they are like sable and excite me more than anything else I have touched. When I kiss her I don't fall into her, my mouth connects with hers and I can taste her. She is fresh and sweet like a river which I drink like a man dying of thirst.

_**December 10**__**th**__** Glenaeon Street, Kingsport; 1884  
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Again I feel her velvet dress, feel her breast, her brow, her smile. I kiss her. I kiss her so deeply I feel my lungs will explode for want of air. But I can't bring myself to pull away. I kiss her. And kiss her. And kiss her.

_**December 20**__**th **__**Allwinds, Avonlea; 1884  
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Again we are kissing, and it as slippery and sweet as it has ever been. Her body is under mine and I fit against it as I fit against water. It's rushing, flashing with starlight as though she took my hand and flew me through the heavens. We speed faster and faster, I hold her tighter and tighter. I am afraid I will break her. I pull away and say her name. She stops my words with another kiss and wraps her body around mine.

_**December 24**__**th**__** Allwinds, Avonlea; 1884  
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This time I feel as though we are not flying but falling. I am afraid for myself, but more than that I am afraid for Anne. I pull away, I say her name. She won't answer me but closes in for another kiss.

_**December 30**__**th**__** Allwinds, Avonlea; 1884**_

She presses her lips to mine. I pull away and say her name. She will not answer and she will not open her eyes. I feel a sharp, cold dread when I realise that all this time she has never opened them. Look at me, I plead with her, look at me. She releases me and lets me fall. I land on the grass where we lay that night and watch her dissolve into stars.

_**December 31st Allwinds, Avonlea; 1884  
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The last day of the year and there is only one thing I know for sure. I won't be proposing to Anne.

To think last year I was steadying myself for a kiss. This year I have been stealing myself to propose. But like the shovelling I did this morning that effort is now undone as the snow falls thick and fast again. The Pye's party is cancelled and with it my last chance to be alone with her.

Days stuck here knowing Anne is only two miles away are unbearable. Afternoons spent in her close little parlour are worse. Marilla Cuthbert might clear the way but I feel her in the room with us -with the twins, Mrs Lynde, and almost everyone else in Avonlea- just as surely as Anne does. _Worships the ground she_ _walks on_ is how most folk here describe it. And so I would if Anne walked on any. Instead she paces the parlour day after day, like a cat taunted by birds at the window. I would be the first to set her free. What I wouldn't give for two hours of clear sky so that I might grab her hand and take her for a ramble. I keep thinking if I could just get her out to our tree, or to any scrap of green, I know that Anne -my Anne- would return.

Each day I am filled with fresh hope. Marching to her over waist deep snow is the best part of my day. The cold sucks the air from my lungs, my thighs ache and my face burns, yet that is nothing to the relief I feel to be working my body, to take another step closer to her. Telling myself today I will ask her. And then walking home again with the words still in my throat.

**January 3rd, Allwinds, Avonlea; 1885**

I have a growing dread that I will never have a chance to speak. Fortune has once again smiled on that girl. Diana Barry's aunt has died and left a thousand dollars to Anne. Just like that her path, once choked with snow like mine, is cleared. Whatever comes now she has the means to remain at Redmond. It was no small comfort to know that Anne and I were both as rich and as poor as each other, and I will myself to dwell on my happiness for her -as I know she would for me. But my thoughts soon turn to everything else this money will bring. To concerts, balls, feasts and finery -all things beyond my means, and my time. I have seen more of her this Christmas break than all November; every evening she is free is one I've been obliged to work. I feel her slipping away from me -if not for my dreams I would have gone mad.

Blythe, you are going mad. Even blizzards can't break this habit I have. I seem to live for the night. In Kingsport I could walk for miles, I feel so close to Anne when I'm under the stars, their light pours down on me like water on a burning man. Here I drink her in through an open window, the snowflakes like stars that cover and cool me. I need cooling. Ruled by a passion so overwhelming I forget who I am. I don't know this man. I don't want to feel this way. I want to return to the days when I could laugh by her side.

No. That is a lie. I don't want that, and I can't go back to that. I am stuck, like Anne, pacing the floor and wanting release.

_**January 6th, crossing the Strait to N.S.**_

Idiot! Anne has stormed off to the Ladies Lounge. The crossing has been a violent one and we are both a little green. I went to find refreshments for us both and when I returned found her slumped against the corner of the banquette, drifting off to sleep. A friend would have woken her or bundled his coat under her head. A fool would forget about the tea and wrap his arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his idiot self.

I had three unforgettable minutes as Anne's hair brushed against my face, releasing a scent both rosemary and rare. Her shallow breaths slowed and deepened and she made a tiny sigh, a secret sound that told me am safe now. I am home. If I had remembered to breathe perhaps she would still be here. Instead I became so still, so wary of every movement -the way I am with a wild animal. It was the moment I became afraid that she awoke. Her poor, pale face attempting a feeble blush as she lurched herself up and glared at me.

Gilbert, stop.

But I don't know how to anymore.

**_January 12th, Glenaeon Street, Kingsport_**

She doesn't want me. I know that now. Wherever I am these days Anne makes sure she's not. This time last year we were debating each other across the hall and over the cushions. And when I scored a goal it was her cheers that rang in my ears. Now whenever I want to see her I am always mindful of what it will cost me. I turned down a shift of letter-setting in order to attend the spree tonight. A Friday night gathering like the old days at St John's -to talk _of shoes and ships and ceiling wax and cabbages and kings. _Vanity got the better of me and I foolishly splurged on a waistcoat from Talbots, a dull silk of midnight blue, and brought armfuls of holly for the girls.

Stella and Priscilla greeted me with more care than usual which put me on guard. Those two are so wrapped up in each other -they remind me of Anne and Diana- and I was minded of how much I've missed Priss' company. We spent many a night on the stairs at St John's, she has the ability to speak without fear which makes her both a formidable debater and a rare friend.

Holly! she beamed, Trust you to get it right! Patty's Place is beginning to feel like a hothouse -some flush fool gave Phil gardenias! Gardenias! In winter!

Priss had evidently had her share of mulled wine. She took my bunch and led me into the kitchen to say that Anne wouldn't be there tonight.

Fine by me, I lied. How are you, Priss?

Strangely happy, she smiled and watched Stella clamber up the pine dresser to seek out an urn. But you needn't pretend you are, Mr Blythe. I am sorry, and so was Anne. But they needed someone to adjudicate the freshman debate -and you know what Anne's like...

I know what Anne's like. I know Anne knows I won't have a chance to see her for another three weeks, except to pass her in lecture halls or gather for tea round a table with twenty others. I'm not imagining it. I can't come up with any fresh excuses, and I hate for her to have to. She doesn't want me. And that is that. At least I have avoided the humiliation of asking for her hand. Now I know I never need to.

**_February 14th Glenaeon Street, Kingsport_**

Collided with Anne outside a jewellers as I waited for my tram. I had been studying the rings in the window and congratulating myself on the fortune I'd saved as starry eyed couples exited the shop, when my starry eyed girl walked straight into me. I was about to raise my hat and walk home when she clutched at my arm.

I don't blame you for not recognising me, we've been like ghosts to each other! What are you eyeing in that window, I wonder? You wouldn't be so unimaginative as to propose to someone on Valentine's day, would you, Gilbert Blythe?

I had to hold in a laugh then as I watched the red on the tip of her nose spread all over her face; realising she had said the one thing she must have vowed never to speak to me about.

What about you, I asked her, buying some new bauble? -and cursed myself for sounding so sore. I needn't have worried, Anne has always been immune to bitterness, and told me she was merely collecting a ring that Phil had wanted restyled. I couldn't resist saying then, Remember that thing Charlie had made?

Last Valentine's Day. The night she passed up the Ball to have tea and toast with me. I pulled up the collar of my coat, remembering I was wearing her scarf. She drew her gloved finger over her mouth, and I knew she was remembering too.

I've been meaning to ask you for the longest time, she began, her words came softer and she stared at my boots, what you make of Dr Ellison's theory about language -that it is not learned at all but innate? When I sat in his lecture it all made perfect sense, but when I look over my notes I can't begin to unravel his argument.

I felt that familiar feeling flood through me. I love you, I thought, and I don't care what we talk about -just so long as we talk. We agreed to take afternoon tea at Backshalls and were about to depart when something in the window display caught her eye. A simple gold chain, and on it a tiny pink enamel heart. I could see it nestled in the hollow between her collarbones and for the first time wished I was the sort of fellow who could buy it for her on a whim. I bought her hot chocolate instead, and had the priceless pleasure of watching spots as pink as that heart bloom on Anne's cheeks. Then we were running through the streets, her hand in mine, our feet falling in step with each other as we made our way to her water-colour class in a studio down by the boat sheds.

Her last words to me -Let's do this again, Gil! Let's not wait so long! before she ran headlong into a fellow who looked like he had been waiting out in the cold for her for some time. I tipped my hat at him -I know just how he feels.

**_February 21st Glenaeon Street, Kingsport_**

I've had that dream again...

**... ... ...**

**Thanks for reading :o)**


	9. Chapter XIX

**With love and gratitude to L.M.M. -everything is hers, only this idea is mine**

**... ... ... **

**And now we hear from Anne...**

**CHAPTER XIX -An Interlude**

_**Thursday 7th March, Patty's Place -hiding in my very own house  
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Oh Ady, I feel trapped -or rather I have trapped myself! There I was looking forward to an evening cosying up with my newly twenty year old self, sharing secrets and crumbly fudge with Aunt Jimsie as I curled up on the hearth rug with a ceramic flask pressed to my poor, sore belly. The cramps are unusually strong this month. Aunty believes it is something to do with the fullness of the moon tonight. 'Take heart, dear', she said kindly, 'all it means is that you are letting go of things you no longer need'. I can't help hoping it is true, that tomorrow the pain in my abdomen will have gone, and I will awake renewed. Transformed into the Anne Shirley I always dreamed of being.

Miss Stacey once said that for better or worse my character would be formed by now, and I can't help wondering if it is for the worse. I ask you, Ady, what sort of grown up can win scholarships and accolades -from Dr Kent _and_ Rollings Reliable- yet find herself cornered in her own bedroom? If only I could get to my flask, or to the kitchen to boil some fresh water and fill another one. Instead I find myself in my little blue haven feeling more than a little blue, while Jimsie and Gilbert take tea in the living room like the very best of chums.

Priss and Stella are long gone, off to the committee meeting with my apologies. Phil has since floated out of the door in the darlingest buttercup gown, leaving Aunty and me to nestle by the fireside to swap nonsense and other things that are wonderfully bad for you. Of course, we had talked of a party -nothing too grand- but even that proved beyond me tonight. How Phil pouted! As if she hadn't a hundred other invitations to do a hundred other frivolous things. Do you know, Ady, I believe she likes to find things to pout about, it never fails to bring out her divine dimples. Not that she could be improved upon tonight. What an angel she looked in that cobwebby lace -and what a little devil dwells inside her.

I was glad enough to see them go. I would say it was looming exams, the frozen mud and grey skies that makes me so ambivalent about my birthday. But I wonder if it isn't because I am thinking of Mother and Father, of how they have missed seeing their daughter grow, and missed growing old with each other. I once found it terribly romantic to think that Mother couldn't live without Father. But sometimes... Oh, Ady I am sorry to admit it -but sometimes I wish she could have found a way, or the will, to live for me. I ache for her, and for Father. And no one, not Marilla or Jimsie or _any_ girl, nor a _thousand_ hot flasks, can soothe that particular pain on this particular day.

Do you know I believe I _will_ say yes to Phil, after all. Once again she has suggested I go with her to Bolingbroke before returning to the Island for the summer. I always say no because I miss the Island too much to be away from her shores for even one extra day. But perhaps there was a part of me that felt apprehensive about returning to the place where Miss Willis and Mr Shirley met and married and made a family -she was already a mother by _twenty. _What other dreams were begun in that tiny house, where all they had was what what they found in each other. What did Phil say this evening~

_Oh, hearts that have loved the good old way, have been out of fashion this many a day!_

It is the sort of love Diana and Fred have. A sweet love. A good love. An Island love. And I am grateful for that life and for having those darlings to return to. But I don't want to stay there forever. Not when there is so much more of this loveable old world to discover. I keep re-reading Dr Kent's remarks on my latest essay -you know the one I was in such a fever about for weeks, about the depiction of otherness in Canadian literature? Didn't I have such a lot to say about that. I have been _other_ for most of my life.

_Fresh and arresting, Miss Shirley. You have not only made a clear and balanced argument but have produced work of astonishing originality and maturity. I hope to have the pleasure of watching it develop, not only over the next two years, but into a very promising future.  
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How I skipped across the Quad upon reading that, Dr Kent is as delicious as he is daunting. But that was nothing to the queer thrill that went through me when I noticed the post script on the back of the last page: _Anne, I would like to see you at your earliest convenience. _

I had been constructing various misty manors in the warm glow of the fire -imagining myriad glories Dr Kent had envisaged for me- when Gilbert arrived. I recognised his knock immediately and begged Jamesina to answer the door and tell our guest I was out. Aunty, of course, liked that not one bit. But I wasn't so keen to hear her opinion just then and dashed up the stairs and waited.

What I didn't take into account, however, is that Jimsie is made from the same stuff as Stella Maynard. What did she do but invite Gilbert inside, and is now offering him a _third_ cup of tea,_ m__y_ jasmine and rose petal tea which Priss had ordered from Eaton's especially for my birthday. While I lurk about my bedroom, unable to make a sound and vainly wishing for my flask. The cramps have become quite fearsome and are spreading to my lower back. Curse that Jamesina, curse that Gilbert, and especially curse my nonsensical self.

_Finally!_ Gilbert has gone. Now to give that Jimsie creature a piece of my mind.

**To be continued...**

What a strange and significant evening I've had! You'd think I would have learned by now that unpromising beginnings tend to yield the most astonishing ends. If only that were to come true for my writing ambitions. Still, perhaps my talents lie in other fields. Gilbert must certainly think so.

I was barely down the stairs before Aunty thrust Gilbert's birthday present into my hands. Of course _that_ is why he had come here -and of course I was rightfully shamed. It's only that things with Gil are... well I have already filled too many of your pages with how things are with Gilbert. Aunty was _so_ curious as to its contents. It was such a strange shape, long and thin -my first thought was that he was playing a joke by giving me knitting needles. The last time I had seen him was in the Sophomore Common Room, where Charlie Sloane had remarked with inimitable and indefatigable Sloanishness that the permanent ink stain on my index finger would ruin any future fancy work I would be expected to do! Aunty couldn't keep her eyes off the brown paper package. But I made her wait, and spent far too long admiring Gil's card -which I will be fixing straight to my bedroom wall. Such a _glorious_ depiction of a starry night sky! His inscription was a little more prosaic, though I could tell he thought better of signing 'love, Gil' and decided to squeeze a 'with' before that tender reminder.

Then to the parcel. Ady, they were paint brushes! And not just paint brushes, the very best sable haired brushes from Germany. I recognised their value immediately and was the very opposite of overjoyed. Because, of course, I have never taken a water-colour class in my life! I only allowed Gilbert his assumption because the words 'life drawing class' refused to come out of my mouth. I explained to Aunty why I was so ruffled and do you know what she said? That I should have brought him along with me- not as a fellow student but as a _model_.

'Fine figure of a man', she sighed, 'I don't think I've spent an evening with a better example of masculine physique for... thirty years at least!'

Naturally the first thing I thought of then (and _now_) was of Gilbert Blythe standing on that plinth in the middle of the room with nothing but a sheet about his hips. Though what I said was-

'Aunt Jamesina! Masculine physiques don't interest me in the least!'

'Which is why you lied to the poor boy about taking life drawing class', she said, popping another piece of fudge -_my_ fudge- into her mouth.

'I didn't lie-' I began, but Aunty wouldn't let me finish. 'You did, and you do. I expect such shenanigans from Phil, but not you, dear. Hiding up in your room like that. It's beneath you, Anne. Since when have you been so coy about sparing a suitor's feelings-'

'I'm not _trying_ to spare Gilbert's feelings-'

'Well, that is a relief', she said drily, 'because you are doing a very poor job of it'.

I clutched at my flask and it suddenly occurred to me that Gilbert would have seen it, would have noticed it was hot, would have concluded that someone else had recently been in that room only moments before he arrived. Was it possible he had been sitting in the park watching the girls leave and expecting me to appear? When I awoke this morning the only thing I longed for was the moment I could tuck myself up again. Was that too much to ask on my birthday? Aunty thought it was. As did Phil. And now Gilbert, too.

I felt ugly, achey and the worst sort of awful, and it came forth in a flood of feeling that hasn't been equalled since the day I met Rachel Lynde. Though now I wonder if what I felt wasn't more akin to that infamous incident in Mr Phillips' schoolhouse. All I wished was to be left alone for a while to dwell in my castle of dreams. Gilbert would pull me out of that world and look toward him instead.

'I never intended to hurt anyone', I cried, 'I just wanted to be with myself! Not as Carrots or Queen or orphan or a scholar or Bluenose -or even Island girl! Just plain Anne Shirley!'

Jimsie reached over and took hold of my hand. I was glad she didn't try to hold the rest of me for I felt as wild as a bird trapped inside a room.

'There, there, dearie', she cooed. 'I dare say Mr Blythe is made of stern stuff, don't give his feelings another thought. You be as Anne-ish as you want, my girl. And I shall sit by your side, just as Jimsie as I can possibly be'.

'Which Jimsie is that?' I sniffed.

'The one who ate all the fudge', she giggled.

**… … …**

**Once again thank you for reading and for all your delicious reviews, you don't know how cool it is to know you enjoy this story :o) Just a few replies: Insubfreak, again you crack me up. Edkchestnut, I have already written a story about what happened after. It's in the M section ;o) GoDons, have mercy, every chapter can't be like that -I gotta build things up as well...**

**So next we have it -the car is a-crashing and this story is a-ending. This may or may not surprise you but I haven't decided how to go about it yet. So what do you think, are you interested in the befores (Gil goes off all hopeful) or the aftermath? (Anne tries to come to terms with a world without Gilbert) or are you complete masochists? (and want to read about Gilbert coming to terms with a world without Anne)**


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